


Friends

by Starlithorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 00:55:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlithorizon/pseuds/Starlithorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade helped a great man, who, if we are very lucky, might even be a good one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friends

They met not-so-many years ago. It wasn't too long before Sherlock met John, really, though to him, it feels like centuries passed between the two meetings. Maybe they did.

Though he wasn't too much younger than he is now, Sherlock was just a kid. A scared, lonely kid on the wrong end of addiction. To be fair, though, _every_  end is the wrong one. Lestrade was so close to getting the DI position. It just took a few more perfectly-executed solutions and it would be his. Everything was very nearly derailed when he met the kid. Swirling in a beautiful black coat and sparkling cocaine haze, he was as impressive and superior as ever. He was something different then, though.

Frightened, perhaps.

Broken.

He led Sherlock to his boring little flat, the one he was going to lose any day now. Lestrade couldn't be sure if it was because of the rent money spent on chemical bliss, or the frenetic mess that filled every space, or the amount of _noise_  this bloke could make. Whether tramping up the stairs, screaming abuse at the walls, or scraping at the strings of a precious violin, Sherlock was a constant explosion of sound. He spoke almost constantly but never said anything.

Sherlock had a reputation at NSY already. Lestrade had heard of him, had heard of the fragile miracle of his brain, but had never really met him. Somehow, likely by divine intervention or poor timing or luck (of any variety), he'd never worked a case that had required the consulting detective.

It took five minutes to realize just  _how_  impressive Sherlock Holmes was. Six minutes to understand how tremendous that brain was. Seven to realize that it would be hell to get him clean.

Eight to realize that it _would_ happen.

Sherlock and Lestrade had met five years before a lonely army doctor met up with an old medical school friend. The first two years were hell for Sherlock. The pain and misery of withdrawal, tempered only by cases ("I swear to God, Sherlock, if you are high at a crime scene, _just one single crime scene_ , I will arrest you myself. I will have your brother take you on the second you're out, and you will never see another case again.") and a begrudging sort of friendship.

The last three years were Sherlock _in_  hell. He'd used the chemical compounds to quiet the raucous grinding of gears, the constant flood of noise, the desolation of his life ( _Irrelevant. Sentimental. Delete._ ), everything. Now, he could only still his mind by focusing every drop of it through the funnel of a case. Otherwise, huge portions were directed his way, picking at every detrimental flaw, telling him that he was a monster, a freak, a machine, _badbadbad_.

Lestrade liked to think that he saved Sherlock, and he did: from cocaine. But he knew that John Watson had done something so much quieter, so much more important.

He saved Sherlock from himself.


End file.
